


Interlude: Sherlock's Poetry

by StarlightAndFireflies



Series: How Novel [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Free Verse, M/M, Poetry, Sherlock writes poetry, Sonnets, it might not be good poetry but oh well
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-11-02 01:09:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 1,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20570537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlightAndFireflies/pseuds/StarlightAndFireflies
Summary: Set in myHow Noveluniverse, this is a collection of poems written by Sherlock, before and during the events of this series.(Disclaimer: I'm not a poet, and I'm rather nervous about this. Please be gentle with me.)





	1. Fairy Lights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes, age 10 (written at age 18).
> 
> Written before the events of How Novel.

Fairy Lights

Fairy lights illuminate silky fur;  
The fireplace flickers with the light of happiness.  
You tell him what you asked for —  
a real scalpel, honeybees,  
a better microscope, books —  
and his tail wags, understanding.

You stay awake as long as you can,  
the fire burning down to ash and embers  
red-gold and grey —  
the colors of his fur.  
Your mother’s arms ferry you to bed,  
but he stays, tail thumping a gentle goodnight.

The fairy lights are off that morning  
when you find he hasn’t moved.  
You drop to your knees,  
and he shudders,  
and you cry out for someone,  
anyone.

Fairy lights in the stark white waiting room,  
but there is no holiday cheer here.  
He trembles on the examination table,  
and you make a new list:  
“To Father Christmas, make my puppy better.  
“I don’t need anything else.”

The fairy lights turn off in the waiting room,  
but you aren’t allowed to see him.  
Adults’ quiet tones are scarier than shouts  
when you realize he’s not coming home.

At home you tear down the fairy lights  
and rip up your old list  
and tear at the rug, but it’s too big or you’re too small or your heart too heavy.  
You yell at Father Christmas,  
and later, you pretend to sleep on the rug  
but really you try to feel warmth.

In the morning you hate it all —  
the scalpel, the microscope,  
the books on bees.  
You hate them as you hate Father Christmas.

Closing your eyes, you feel adrift at sea.  
You see fairy lights and your lost first mate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *hysterical laughter* I'm not terrified of posting terrible poetry, of course not. But several of you said you'd be willing to read some of Sherlock's work, and since you are all so sweet, I can't say no to you.
> 
> Anyway, I've got several of these poems ready to go. I'll be posting one a day for the next week while I finish up edits on the next installment in the series. So keep a look out for those!
> 
> Thank you, as ever, for reading and leaving kudos and comments. You keep me right.
> 
> PS, I don't know why I am incapable of posting things set during Christmas, actually during Christmas. Oh well.


	2. For V. T.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By Sherlock Holmes, age 17.
> 
> Written before the events of How Novel.

For V. T.

Your handsome face and charming smile  
were just disguises for a snake poised to strike

I gave in for once, at once,  
taken in by a facade of fondness

You were a honeypot that turned to stings,  
aTrojan horse sacking the city

You were a glitch in the code of my universe,  
and I was infected with a virus called feeling

I will clean out this malware  
because alone is all I have

I do not need you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock refers to his brief relationship with Victor Trevor in _A New Leaf_, and this is my idea of how Sherlock (via poetry) reacted to it back then.
> 
> ... I promise later poems will be happier.


	3. After Coffee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By Sherlock Holmes, age 24.
> 
> Written after the events of _A Novel Meeting_, part 1 of How Novel.

After Coffee

Cobalt eyes piercing me  
as if they can see who I really am  
Is that what it’s like for everyone else?  
Feeling like an insect pinned to a board?

Golden skin touching my hand  
as if I’m something worth cherishing  
Is this what a first date is like for normal people?  
Trying not to let my fingers sweat in yours?

Pearly smile trained on me  
as if somehow I can make you happy  
Is this heat in my cheeks joy or terror?  
Do I care to find out which?

No. It doesn’t make a difference, really.  
All that really matters, as you’re kissing my lips,  
is that maybe, just maybe,  
I am somehow not a freak to you.


	4. Sentiment Considered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By Sherlock Holmes, age 24, November.
> 
> Written between _My Type_ and _A New Leaf_, parts 5 and 6 of How Novel.

Sentiment Considered

I do not know sentiment  
I pass devotion on the street as strangers do

I watch people walk by hand in hand  
Yet I pull gloves over my own skin

I hear laughter and arguing all around  
Yet I remain silent in the palace halls

I dodge fickle, disloyal feelings  
I call solitude my closest companion

But you...

You know sentiment  
You hold a smile like a trophy

You ride waves of heartbreak and joy  
Yet you hide the evidence — proper British

You enchant and are enchanting  
Yet you seem unaware of the spells you cast

You risk so much to feel  
You are braver, by far, than I

And so...

We collide without expectation  
We should not fit, logically

We find connection between each other’s fingers  
Yet the touch leaves us aching for more  
We spend hours side by side  
Yet still speak under covers all night

We bicker and cherish and quarrel and cling  
We seem to experience everything all at once

And this…

We have made this our world, our private universe  
Yet it shifts and changes and thrills

I still grapple with the emotions  
Yet you press them into me with each kiss, every embrace

I did not know sentiment  
Yet now I am led to believe 

You are my one true sentiment


	5. Lying in Bed, Waiting for You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By Sherlock Holmes, age 24, December.
> 
> Written during _A New Leaf_, part 6 of How Novel.

Lying in Bed, Waiting for You

Wool jumper laying abandoned on the floor,  
enveloping warmth on the sheets fading to chill,  
ghostly steam lingering on the mirror by the sink.

Happy hums echoing in my ears,  
cold floor and creaking boards under my feet,  
tantalizing smells of cooking drifting in the air.

“Go lie down!” bursts out your laughing voice,  
gentle hands caressing my face.  
“It’s called breakfast in bed for a reason.”

Obeying, I fall back onto the pillows,  
curling into an indentation you’ll soon reclaim,  
wondering if this affection is a dream.

I’ve never been adored before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Strangely enough, I wrote this before I even got around to writing part 2 of How Novel, then forgot about it for a while. So I'm so happy (though still low key nervous) to finally share it with you all!


	6. Fairy Lights, Revisited

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By Sherlock Holmes, age 24, January.
> 
> Written after the events of _A New Leaf_, part 6 of How Novel.

Fairy Lights, Revisited

Perhaps fairy lights  
and lying on a rug  
in front of a fireplace  
aren’t so bad anymore  
with you and your lips to block out the pain.

Redbeard’s ghost doesn’t haunt anymore.


	7. Your Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By Sherlock Holmes, age 25, March.
> 
> Written after the events of _Printing Stress_, part 7 of How Novel.

Your Hands

Dark spatters adorn your skin  
as the pen dances across the page:  
feverish scrawl,  
but your passion spills out.

Taps on the keyboard —  
tentative, unskilled, eager:  
frustrating to witness,  
but you craft entire worlds.

Marvelous smells waft about —  
meals materialize under your hands:  
tempting, satisfying,  
but you seem unimpressed with your own skill.

Pointing, waving, gesticulating,  
emphasizing emotions with motions:  
endearing in your enthusiasm,  
but you are unaware of your charm.

Gentle tan fingers reach out across the pillows,  
enfolding and holding with tenderness,  
protectiveness, possessiveness, desperation,  
but I cannot get enough.

Your hands are a fascination —  
they are you, encapsulated:  
all you are is contained in these digits,  
cradling me with more passion than I have yet known.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned next week for a new poem here that applies directly to the next installment in this series, which will be posted the same day and will be called _Prosody and Cons_!


	8. A Sonnet For Drunk John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes, age 25, August.
> 
> Written during the events of _Prosody and Cons_, part 8 of How Novel.

A Sonnet For Drunk John

You tell me all about these diff’rent forms,  
the merits of free verse and prosody.  
You really are quite charming when you let  
yourself just babble on about these things.

Good heavens, John, why did you make me try  
this odd and frankly irritating mess?  
You’ll notice that I didn’t choose to rhyme,  
for that will have to be another day.

That is, if I am here when morning comes  
and haven’t run off screaming far away  
where poets do not have to count like this  
And be at peace with words again — it’s bliss.

Oh god, you really made me rhyme right there.  
The things I do for you, my love, I swear.


End file.
